Date: Mon, 12 May 2008 14:39:10 +0000
From: white collar
Subject: Mergers and Acquisitions - Part 5 (M/M, NC, B&D)
Any comments will be gladly received at white_collar@hotmail.com
Note: Any resemblance to real people is strictly coincidental. No real
people are depicted in this piece of fiction. This story contains explicit
male to male sex, domination and bondage. If you don't enjoy reading this
sort of material or are under the age of 21, DO NOT CONTINUE READING. If
you regard this type of material as depraved then flee from here and don't
look back! This story is NOT to be taken as an endorsement of the
materials found on that site. Caveat emptor.
Mergers and Acquisitions -- Chapter 9
Bill pulled Brad, struggling to keep up on his sore knees and tired arms,
into the room. Thornsburg was waiting for them, leaning against the bench,
his arms crossed over his chest.
"You're late," was all he said.
"Sorry boss," Bill said. "The pup took a little extra time to do his
business."
Brad didn't think he'd tarried at any point this morning but realized it
really didn't matter; if there was a problem, he would be the one to answer
for it.
"Figures," Thornsburg said. "I can see I'm going to have to work extra on
him to get him into line. That's the problem with these older dogs; they
have bad habits, especially if they're used to calling the shots. But I
knew all that before I started so I guess it's just part of the price. Of
course, he'll be the one paying the price, not me!"
Bill and Guy laughed along with Thornsburg at his joke but Brad just
crouched on the floor and glared at them. Sons of bitches! He'd make them
pay for it if he ever got the chance. He'd make them pay for all that
they'd done to him: the kidnapping, the stripping, the beatings, the
humiliation, the degradation, for making his cock stiffen and shoot in a
response he hated.
He was lost in his thoughts of revenge when he noticed that a dead silence
had settled over the room. He glanced up at Jack Thornsburg and saw that
Thornsburg was looking into his eyes, a smirk on his face. As a sense of
dread crept into his brain and moved into his eyes, the smirk morphed into
a grin.
"You're probably thinking about how you'll get even someday, if you ever
get out of this," Jack said, chuckling.
Before he could stop it, a look of shock flowed across Brad's face: how
could he have known?
""What? You think I'm stupid, pup? You think I'm as stupid as you are?
Well you can think again. First off, you're not getting out of this.
Second, you can kiss any ideas of revenge goodbye. The only revenge will
be revenge on you for treating other people like shit. I can tell you're
going to hate every minute of it but that doesn't matter. You see, what
you want, what you care about, how you feel isn't important to me. You're
a dog now and you'll sit when you're told; you'll beg when you're told, you
fetch when you're told, you'll lick when you're told, you'll suck when
you're told and you'll be fucked whenever a man orders you to open your
cunt. And in time, you will come to enjoy it. Oh, maybe not mentally, but
your body will enjoy it. I can see that already. And you're just
beginning to understand. But it takes time... Yes, training a dog takes
time and patience and those I have. So let's get started with your
training. I've never liked dogs with docked tails. Get a tail in this
pup. And get an open gag in his mouth. I want to hear him but not
understand him. After all, dogs don't speak And put a cage on that dick; I
don't want any dog of mine shooting his spunk around my place."
Bill and Guy went to a cupboard and returned to where Brad crouched. Guy
was holding a metal ring with leather straps attached on both sides. He
pulled the dog's jaws open and Bill shoved the ring behind his teeth. Then
he wrapped the straps around his head and buckled the ends together.
Brad's mouth was now held open but only noise would come out of it since he
was unable to move his jaw to speak. Next, Bill pushed down on his
shoulders, squatted over his head and leaned over his back, pinning him to
the floor. Then he reached back and pulled Brad's ass open. Brad felt the
touch of Guy's cold fingers entering him and lubing his innards. Then he
felt the hotter, harder, stretching penetration of something that was not
human flesh. He howled in pain as his ass ring was set on fire and though
he would have liked to get up and flee, he was held immobile by Bill's
weight. Fortunately, Bill began to spank his ass, distracting him from the
pain and ringing that distant bell in his head that caused his dick to
stiffen. Pain and arousal were once again joined and he struggled to focus
his attention on the spanking rather than the fire inside. Finally, the
fire began to flicker and die and he breathed a sigh of relief. His dick
was still quite firm and he could feel it was beginning to leak when,
suddenly, Guy reached between his legs, grabbed him and bent his cock
downward, sliding something over it. He moaned with the pain of having his
semi-erect penis bent opposite the direction it wanted to go and as he
whimpered, he heard the distinctive ratchet of a handcuff. Bill got off
his back and raised his head with his hand under Brad's chin.
"Walk pup," Bill said and backed up three paces.
Brad followed and felt the thing inside him oscillate with his movements.
He quickly glanced down and saw a metal tube, like a downspout, hiding his
dick with a single cuff locked around his cock and balls. He knew that, as
long as that was on him, any erection would be pure torture. Looking back
over his shoulder, he saw a black tail rising over his butt. He flushed
with humiliation, realizing that they had indeed planted a tail in him.
And every movement made the tail "wag" and stimulated his prostate as the
plug holding it in place rubbed back and forth over this spot inside him
he'd never known existed. But he wasn't given long to consider his
humiliation. Jack Thornsburg stepped in front of him and stood over him.
Brad kept his eyes level and forward, looking at Jack's knees. He refused
to look at the floor and he refused to look up into his tormentor's face.
Thornsburg just laughed. How, Brad wondered, did he seem to read his mind?
This in itself was maddening. Then Thornsburg spoke.
"The first lesson is to heel. Give me the leash Bill."
Dutifully, Bill handed Thornsburg the leash. Jack took the leash in his
left hand, turned and walked away, barking "heel!"
When Brad failed to move, Thornsburg yanked on the leash, pulling Brad off-
balance and choking him. As quickly as he could, Brad struggled to catch
up with his antagonist, moving awkwardly on his hands and knees, trying to
move to Thornsburg's left, where he held the leash. Then, just as he
reached his trainer's heels, he wheeled around to his right, pulling Brad
around in a wide circle.
"Heel!"
Again, Brad strove to catch up, crawling on his already sore knees and
aching arms. Time after time, the same action: Brad would catch up and
possibly stay even with his trainer's heels and Thornsburg would turn
again, pulling Brad after him. Each step pulsed in his ass as the tail
wagged back and forth and each turn emphasized the movement as the tail
whipped around, following the movements of its dog. Brad forced himself to
focus on Jack's intake of breath as he inhaled to snap the command. He
realized that if he was ready to turn when the order came, it was less
effort on his part because he didn't have to play catch-up. So he found
himself paying fierce attention to his trainer's every move. Sweat was
pouring off his body in a matter of minutes, burning his eyes, forcing them
closed. He had to use his hearing and his tactile awareness of his
trainer's movements to anticipate when he was going to turn and in which
direction. As he got better at it, he found himself feeling a perverse
sense of pride in what he was able to do. He'd show this son-of-a-bitch
what he was capable of! He would excel at this, as much as it hurt, as
humiliating as it was. What he failed to realize was how like a real dog
he was becoming.
Finally Thornsburg stopped. Brad fell to the floor, panting, his body
shiny with sweat.
"Give the dog some water Bill while I take a time-out," Thornsburg said,
handing him the leash.
Bill poured some water from a bottle into a metal bowl on the floor. Brad
was parched and, getting quickly to his hands and knees started for the
bowl
"Ah, ah!" Bill warned.
Brad realized his mistake and stopped.
"Sit boy," Bill ordered.
A small objection flitted through Brad's mind but he was too thirsty to
entertain it. He sat back on his haunches, pushing the plug in even
farther. He whimpered slightly from the discomfort and struggled to
maintain his stoicism.
"Good boy," Bill crowed. "OK, you can drink now pup."
Without a second thought, Brad lowered his head and began to suck in the
water. He realized it was probably some brand of fitness water, having
flavor and apparently some additional calories and electrolytes. Smart, he
thought; keep him better able to function. Not point in having him
collapse. What he hadn't figured on was how difficult it would be to
swallow without being able to close his mouth. At first, some of the water
went down the wrong pipe, setting off a fit of choking.
"Slow down pup. Use your tongue to close your throat so you can swallow,"
Bill said.
Brad tried this out and found that he could indeed do it. But it made the
drinking quite slow; he had to take some water in his mouth, tilt his head
back so that it could flow toward his throat and then raise his tongue to
his palate so that he could swallow. It took forever but the fitness water
revived him and as long as his abusers permitted him to drink, he was going
to do so. Finally, he'd had enough and sat back on his haunches, waiting
to see what miseries they would visit on him next.
It suddenly hit him how sore he was: his back ached, his legs burned, his
knees felt like someone had hit them with hammers, his shoulders were
beginning to cramp and his arms felt like they might fall off. He'd never
been through such physical labor in all his life.
As he sat there, his butt pressed down on the tail, rubbing the plug
against his prostate and making him leak pre-cum onto the floor.
Unconsciously, he began to rock, ever so slightly, to increase the
stimulation of that spot inside him. Thornsburg noticed his motion and
smiled. Yes, this pup would be a tough one in some ways, but in other
ways, he was already trained. Now it was simply a matter of reinforcing
his urges and needs and tapping into that dark place into which even Brad
McClintock himself couldn't shine a light. But the light would shine and
Brad McClintock would be illuminated fully, both to himself and to everyone
else.
Mergers and Acquisitions -- Chapter 10
"Get him up on his feet," Jack Thornsburg ordered.
Looking quizzical but obeying his command, Bill and Guy took Brad under the
arms and raised him to a standing position. This was unusual for a dog
trainee. But neither of them questioned Thornsburg's decisions, at least
not out loud and certainly not in front of him. Brad stood there
unsteadily, his legs quivering from exhaustion and fear, though he never
would have admitted as much.
"Take the cuff off him and clamp his tits to his dick," Thornsburg ordered.
Brad wasn't sure what that meant but he felt a chill pass down his spine.
He knew it wasn't intended for his benefit. Guy took a key and unlocked
the cuff around his cock and balls while Bill went to the cupboard and
brought back two sets of clamps, each joined by a chain. He gave one set
to Guy and, in moments, they had fastened a clamp on each tit. Brad sucked
in his breath at the pain. Then they fastened the other clamp of each set
to the skin on the shaft of his dick, pulling it up and forcing it to stand
straight out. Since he was already leaking, Bill took some of the pre-cum
and painted the head of his cock with it. Even the slight pressure caused
a short jolt of pain to shoot through his dick and tits and he whimpered
slightly, in spite of himself. The pulling on his tits, combined with the
pinching of his dick skin was distinctly unpleasant but not unbearable, at
least not yet.
"Nice and shiny, the way a dog's dick should be," Bill chuckled.
Brad's mind focused on one word: queer. Only queers liked this sort of
shit. Only faggots got off on having things stuck up their asses. Queer,
faggot. The distant taunts of peers echoed deep in the recesses of his
mind, still goading him all these years later. The young boy in him wanted
to lash out, to run away, to cry. But he would never let them see him cry;
he'd die first.
"Good," said Thornsburg. "OK, I'm going to try something I haven't done
before. Get me a halter, a back strap with cuffs and a rope Bill."
Bill fetched the items Thornburg had ordered and the two factotums began
fitting them onto the pup. Removing his collar and leash, they buckled the
back strap around his neck and then, pulling his arms up and behind his
back, buckled them into the cuffs. Brad's arms were now held across the
small of his back and he realized he needed to actively hold them up or
choke himself with the strap around his throat. Then they fitted the
halter on his head and buckled it into place with two straps going across
the top of his head, one from front to back, the other from side to side.
These were joined to a strap going across his forehead and round to the
back of his head, and a fourth going under his chin. What its purpose was,
he wasn't sure.
"Tie the rope to the back of the halter," Thornsburg instructed and Bill
did as ordered. "Now go get a belt. We're going to exercise the dog some
more," he grinned.
Thornsburg moved to the middle of the room, holding the rope in his hand.
He ordered Bill to get the belt and stand behind Brad.
"Now," he said, "we're going to try a new technique that came to me last
night. I'm going to turn you into a long-distance dog. I've trained
several speed racers but I want a dog that can go the distance. So start
running pup. Bill, stay with him as much as you can, and incent him. Run
pup!"
Brad was no longer questioning Thornsburg's orders; he realized it was
futile to object, so he began to trot in a circle around his trainer. Each
step jerked his suspended dick, yanking on his tits and cock
simultaneously. Then he felt the crack of the belt on his ass and uttering
a sharp bark, he began to run faster. His trainer stood in the center,
holding the rope that determined the radius of the circle in which Brad was
forced to run.
Every few steps, the belt collided with his painful ass, incenting him to
keep running. As his body became shiny and slick with sweat and his lungs
burned, memories began to arise from his sub-conscious. Running, running,
running. He'd forgotten, it had been so long ago...
He was a boy, eight, nine, ten? When he disobeyed his father, or even when
he simply made a mistake, his father would remove his belt and tell Bradley
to run. Run outside, circling around the house. Circuit after circuit,
until he thought he might die. And his father would wait for him on the
back porch and each time he passed, would apply the belt to his ass.
Sometimes, his father would order him to stop when he came around. He
would put his hand behind Brad's neck, bend him over and apply several
licks, enough to redden his ass while Brad gasped for air and choked on his
tears and snot. Then Dad would order him to continue running. What he
couldn't quite understand was that this always made his little penis hard.
He thought that was just the way it worked: you get whipped; your penis
gets hard. When he reached his teen years, sometimes his father would see
his bulging pants and cup his genitals, squeezing and massaging them. Then
he'd squeeze very hard as he delivered several more hard whacks to his
backside. He realized that was about the time his father started
"punishing" him for no particular reason. Dad might come home a little
late, having stopped for a few beers and he'd yell for Bradley to present
himself. Then he'd berate him for his failure (what failure, Brad asked
himself?) But he never had anything specific to cite; he was just pissed.
And he'd order Brad to fetch the "special" belt he used and start running.
Brad hated his father for doing this to him but he admired him so deeply
and wanted to please him so he ran and ran. He hated his father; he loved
his father. He needed his father. All he needed was his father's
approval.
"Please daddy," Brad gasped, though the words were unintelligible because
of the gag. "Please hurt me daddy! Please love me. Please don't leave
me!"
Brad was so lost in his memories that he hadn't noticed that Bill had
stopped following him and was standing just outside the circle in which he
was running. Opposite Bill, Guy had taken up a position and both had belts
in their hands. As the pup made his circuit, each time he passed one of
the two, they would slash at his ass, much as his father had done as he
circled the house. Around and around he went, losing track of how many
rounds he'd made; losing track of how many welts were building up on his
backside. His butt burned, his lungs burned, his legs burned. His breath
came in ragged, desperate gasps but he focused on moving forward because he
knew the price for stopping before he was told to would be far worse that
what he was suffering now...
"Enough!"
Jack Thornsburg signaled Bill to intercept Brad on his next circuit. Brad
was gasping deeply for air, his body shiny with real sweat, looking like
those bodybuilders oiled for competition that merely imitated the real
thing. He fell to his knees, he was so exhausted; then he toppled forwards
to the floor.
"Uncuff his hands, take him back to his kennel and give the dog some water;
not too much. Then let him rest for a couple of hours," Thornsburg
directed.
"Yes sir," Bill and Guy answered in unison.
"And put the cage back on his dick. Dogs' dicks are sheathed. I don't
want to be looking at that thing," Thornsburg growled.
Bill grabbed the chains joining the clamps clasping his tits and dick and
he yanked them off causing Brad a swift, ragged inhalation from the initial
shot of pain as the clamps pulled free. Then another inhalation and a
groan as the blood came flooding back into the compressed tissues, sending
pain through his nipples and penis. Guy took the cuffed cock cage and
closed it behind Brad's cock and balls. Then the two keepers unfastened
the cuffs holding Brad's arms behind his back, removed the gag from his
aching jaws and, taking him under his arms, pulled him to his feet and
half-walked, half-dragged him back to his cage. They put a small bowl of
water inside with him, locked the door and left.
Brad lay completely still, every muscle in his body aching and quivering
with fatigue, his backside on fire from the beating. He closed his eyes
and waited: waited for his body to begin to recover; waited for his mind to
process what was happening to him; waited for... for what? He knew he was
powerless now so all he could wait for was whatever Jack Thornsburg decreed
for him.
Mergers and Acquisitions -- Chapter 11
When, at last, he felt he could move, Brad rolled over, got to his knees
and drank. His throat was parched, both from the sweat and the gasping for
air during his forced run. He saw there wasn't a lot of water in the bowl
and, wanting to make it last a little while, forced himself to slow down.
He filled his mouth, let his mucous membranes absorb whatever they could
before raising his tongue to close his throat and let the blessed liquid
run back, swallowing only small amounts at a time. After each gratifying
sip, he sat back on his haunches, closed his eyes and enjoyed the feel of
the fluid being quickly absorbed into his dehydrated cells. When he'd
drunk to the bottom of the bowl, he stuck out his tongue and tried to lick
up the last drops.
Brad collapsed into the back of his kennel and promptly fell asleep,
grateful to be freed from the physical pain and torment of the training and
glad to be freed from the psychological ordeal of finding his body
responding in ways he resisted. His sleep was dreamless but he was
constantly aware at a subliminal level, of the penetration in his ass and
the continual stimulation of his prostate. His rhythmic breathing caused
the plug to oscillate slightly and as he slept, his prostate responded to
the stimulation and semen began oozing from his dick, running out of the
tube ensconcing his flesh and down over his leg.
It seemed he'd been sleeping only seconds when the door banged open, there
was motion in the room and the door of his kennel was thrown wide.
"Out boy. Come on. Get up. Time for more training, lazy bitch!" Bill
shouted at him, banging the bars of his kennel with a nightstick.
Groggy, Brad pulled himself out of the cage and began to stand. Bill
struck the back of his knees with the club, sending him slamming to the
floor, crying out in pain.
"On your hands and knees bitch. What the hell are you thinking? Dogs
don't stand on two feet!"
Brad groaned from the pains in his knees, both front and back. Then Bill
pulled his head up by his hair and wrapped the collar around his neck,
buckling it on and snapping the leash into the D ring.
"Heel!" he ordered and turned to walk out the door.
Brad moved as quickly as he could; much more quickly than his knees
would've permitted if he'd had his choice in the matter. But he had no
choice and Bill wasn't waiting. Brad threw himself after Bill, struggling
to keep up as his keeper strode down the hall to the training room.
When they arrived and the door closed after them, Brad realize he no longer
had any idea what day it was, what time it was or how long he'd been there.
It seemed like forever but he realized that wasn't possible. But the sleep
periods had thrown off his internal clock. Had they been long? Brief? He
didn't know and his continuing exhaustion was becoming a lasting state of
being. He didn't know if he'd ever feel rested again.
"Welcome back pup. I never believed in that old adage 'you can't teach an
old dog new tricks'. And you're going to prove me right. So, it's time to
learn a new trick bitch."
Brad looked up at Jack Thornsburg's face and saw the delight in the pain of
another, Schadenfreude, the Germans called it, that he'd seen so often in
the mirror after brutally dressing down an underling. Seeing the same look
in Jack's face suddenly made him feel ashamed. How could he possibly be
like this man? He couldn't, could he? Didn't he just have high
expectations? Sure, he was demanding, but wasn't that how you got ahead in
this world? Isn't that what he'd learned from his fathers training? But
seeing the same look in his trainer's face started him questioning his own
motives.
Jack stood roughly ten paces from where Brad crouched.
"Come boy," he ordered.
Immediately, Brad crawled to him, not wanting to invite further punishment
to his still painful buttocks. On aching knees, he moved to his trainer.
"Sit."
Brad sat back on his haunches.
"Stay."
The flat of Thornsburg's palm in front of his nose was exactly the gesture
he'd seen used on obedience-trained dogs. He stayed, trying not to move a
muscle as Thornsburg turned and walked across the room.
"Come!"
Again, he lifted himself off his haunches and crawled painfully to his
trainer. He forced his mind to focus on accomplishing each order as well
as he could, which proved a difficult challenge in having to overcome the
agony in his limbs. And every "step" caused that damned tail to wag,
massaging his prostate with the plug that held it in place and causing his
imprisoned cock to press sorely against the pipe enclosing it.
"Sit!"
Brad lowered himself again, once more feeling the plug pushing into his
anus. He lifted his eyes to look at his trainer not as a challenge, but
rather to watch for any telegraphing of his next command, enabling this
dog, as he was beginning to think of himself, to anticipate and execute the
command as soon as it was spoken. His trainer smiled at him and he felt a
sense of grim satisfaction: he was doing what was expected. He was
pleasing his master.
"Stand up pup but keep your hands on the floor," Thornsburg ordered.
Brad groaned as he straightened his legs and felt the pull down his
hamstrings. He hadn't been in a position like this since he was a teenager
playing at yoga. The intervening years had reduced his flexibility and now
he felt it. Why was his master ordering this now?
Jack Thornsburg moved up to him and stood directly in front of him. Brad
realized that his mouth was now level with his master's crotch and he began
to tremble. Was it from excitement or dread or both? He couldn't tell;
all he knew was his limbs were quivering slightly and he felt a hollowness
in his stomach. Thornsburg undid his pants and pulled them down, exposing
his stiffening cock.
Brad looked at it and shivered involuntarily. Men will steal glances at
other men when there's a chance, such as when pissing in a public restroom.
How do I measure up? That's the question. Longer than I am? Thicker?
Bigger head? Bigger balls? Thicker bush? Men compare and compensate with
other things when they come up short. Well, I drive a nicer car. I make
more money. I have... A man has to compensate or he is defeated. But
what could Brad compensate with now? Here he was, stripped of his
property, stripped of his dignity, stripped of his clothes, even stripped
of his hair. His compensations were gone. All he could do was look on
this cock that was going to take him and feel insignificant.
Even though Brad had sucked his master once before, this was the first time
he'd gotten a good look at his cock. It wasn't terribly long, not that
Brad had seen many erect dicks in his life, but it was intimidating. At
seven inches, there were certainly longer cocks in the world but what
captured Brad's attention was its thickness. It reminded him of that
sausage; what was it? A knockwurst? Yes, that was it. It was long enough
but Brad realized it was going to stretch his jaws a great deal when it
became fully erect and entered his mouth. The corona seemed to fit right
into the shaft, rather than forming a ridge that stood proud from it. It
was cut neatly and there was a network of blood vessels extending down the
shaft along the top. It looked like a medieval battering ram and Brad's
anal sphincter clenched in fear as he thought of it crashing through his
gates.
"Open!" was the command. And it was a command; not a request or a
suggestion. It was a straightforward command and there was an implicit
tag: open or suffer.
Brad opened his mouth as far as he could, hoping it would be enough.
"Tongue out!"
Brad extended his tongue.
Jack placed his battering ram on Brad's tongue.
"Don't move," he ordered.
Brad crouched there, his tongue straining to remain extended as his
master's warm flesh rested on it, oozing fluid onto his taste buds.
"Lick."
Brad looked down at the flesh in front of him, curling his tongue under it
to lick. There was a clear drop exuding from the lips of the piss slit and
instinctively, Brad licked it up. It was salty and viscous and he realized
he liked the taste. But he knew that his likes and dislikes were not at
issue here: his goal was to please his master, his trainer and demonstrate
his competence.
Finally Thornsburg slid his column into Brad's open mouth, stretching his
jaws wide and pressing against his soft palate and making him gag.
"Control it pup! And don't let me feel your teeth!" Thornsburg ordered and
Brad understood and strove to obey.
Jack wasn't thrusting: he simply stood there, the end of his broad dick at
Brad's choking point until Brad was able to control his reflexes and resist
the urge to gag.
"Very good pup. I knew you'd be a quick learner. You're a born
cock-sucker."
Thornsberg didn't necessarily like clichés but he understood the
psychological impact inflicted by the phrase he used. Calling a man like
Brad McClintock a cocksucker was another step in his humiliation and
degradation. Chip by chip, his defenses were falling away.
When Brad's throat had been trained to accept his cock, Jack took hold of
his ears and began to fuck his mouth.
"Good boy," he whispered. "Good cocksucker."
Over and over, driving the point home with each thrust as Brad struggled to
find the synchronization between breathing and Jack's thrusts. Finally, he
mastered it and felt less like he was suffocating on cock and less like
gagging. Spit coated Brad's chin and dripped onto the floor. The sounds
of Jack's dick sloppily going in and out almost drowned out the mantra he
kept repeating, training Brad's mind.
"Good boy. Good cocksucker. Good boy. Good cocksucker."
"Press your tongue against my dick pup. Squeeze my meat with your throat.
Make me come boy. Make your master come!" Jack gasped as his thrusts
increased in urgency.
Brad felt the beginnings of the tremors through his tongue, then the
throbbing waves pulsing through his Master's cock and then the sudden,
urgent eruption as hot fluid hit the back of his throat and ran down his
gullet accompanied by Master's guttural shouts. Jack let go of his ears
and braced himself on Brad's shoulders, gasping for breath. Brad himself
was gasping for breath around the cock that still filled his mouth.
All he could hear in his mind was the mantra "Good boy. Good cocksucker.
Faggot. Queer!"
To be continued.